


The Best Laid Plans

by noodlecatposts



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, One Night Stands, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25508755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlecatposts/pseuds/noodlecatposts
Summary: The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron & Azriel, Feyre Archeron & Cassian, Feyre Archeron & Morrigan, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 17
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s a Feysand AU that’s been lurking in the recess of my mind for a while. I’ve written this intro about a hundred times, but we’re just going to let it be now. It’s (mostly) revised; all errors are my own, of course.

Golden blonde strands of hair tickle Feyre’s nose; they stir her into consciousness, drawing her out of her pleasant dreams and back into the real world. It takes her a few blinks to figure out what’s happened, what’s pulled her into the waking world, but when she connects the dots, Feyre scrunches up her nose in irritation.

Mor makes the worst bedmate. It should be no surprise, really; Morrigan is larger than life during her waking hours. Feyre should expect that her best friend would steal all of the space in her little full-sized bed, too.

A huff of breath sends the strands of gold flying, only to land on Feyre’s nose once more just seconds later. She sighs, swiping at Mor’s hair to remove it from her face and decides to get out of bed.

She eyes the slate gray walls as she pads to the bathroom. The townhouse feels oddly unfamiliar, despite the many times that Feyre has walked this hallway, followed this paisley runner to the shared bathroom upstairs. The spare bedroom has always kind of belonged to her in an unspoken sort of way. Yet, it’s different now that all of her things are there with her.

Feyre hisses at the feeling of cold tile under her feet, but the cool air of the bathroom is a relief after sharing a bed with Mor all night. Her best friend is nothing more than a tangle of limbs and wild hair and body heat.

Still, it was nice not to sleep alone for a change. Feyre knew that Morrigan could tell this, that she knew Feyre was feeling lonely; it was the only explanation for Mor’s refusal to sleep in her own bed up the next flight of stairs.

*

The teapot is waiting for her in the kitchen when Feyre gets there. She sets the pot to boil and begins rummaging through Mor’s kitchen cabinets. Chaos is the name of the game in this pantry, and it takes Feyre a little while to find her stash of teas. Some wicked person left them on a topmost shelf. Cassian, Feyre is willing to guess.

Her fingers just grasp the closest container. It’s a mad dash to catch it as the tea hurtles toward her face, but Feyre is nothing if not practiced in the art of being short. She huffs, disgruntled and mad for no reason. She’s felt rather moody these past few days; it might be time to check the calendar.

“I guess it’s a mint tea kind of morning,” Feyre says to herself, resigned. She’s not willing to test her skill and see what she can knock off that shelf next. Feyre will need a step stool if she’s to live in this house designed for tall people. It makes her grumpy, even though she knows that it is a silly thing to be upset over. 

In moments, the sweet aroma of the tea hits her nose; Feyre sighs, breathing it in and praying that the beverage will help improve her mood.

Then something peculiar happens: nausea hits her, sudden and harsh. Feyre’s stomach turns just as she lifts the cup to her lips and her mind revolts against the idea of consuming the liquid. Tea has never been more unappealing in her life. Without further warning, she throws up, nothing more than a horrific little spew of vomit into the kitchen sink. 

The good news, Feyre thinks, as she runs water to clear away the evidence is that no one was there to bear witness to it. _Weird_. _Gross._

Mor, of course, chooses that precise moment to appear. “Something wrong?”

Feyre glances up at her friend. Mor’s bedhead is gone already, her skin practically glowing in the morning light; she looks light and refreshed. No human should be allowed to be so attractive first thing in the morning. It’s just unfair, Feyre thinks.

The thought summons an unwilling flashback. Flashes of warm skin and wild eyes replay vividly behind Feyre’s eyelids, and low whispers and desperate groans skitter across her skin. Her blood heats at the memory, but her heart falls, hitting the bottom of the pit in her stomach.

Feyre shakes her head, flashing Mor a smile, “Apparently, this isn’t what I wanted.”

“Oh,” the blonde grins so brilliantly that it blinds Feyre. “Does that mean brunch is on the table?”

Feyre laughs, forgetting all about the dreadful feeling in her gut. What happened, happened; it was too late to go back and do something about it, do something different. There was only one thing left for her to do, and that was to move forward.

“Yeah,” Feyre forces a smile for Mor. “Sounds great.”

*

“So, basically,” Morrigan recounts her story through a mouthful of food, animatedly waving her hands around, the silverware still clutched in her tapered fingers. Cauldron, Feyre loves this tornado of a woman. “My idiot cousin has _finally_ broken up with that evil girlfriend of his, and he’s moving home!”

Feyre smiles, enjoying Mor’s happiness. Her best friend has spoken very rarely of her cousin throughout their friendship; he was lost to her through a series of unfortunate mishaps, but Feyre knows how much this mysterious cousin of hers means to Morrigan. It’s in the sparkle of excitement in her eyes and the huge smile on her best friend’s lips. 

Feyre wants to hate him in solidarity, but it’s clear that Mor holds no bad blood for her cousin, even if she has every right to do so.

“So,” she begins, giving Mor a curious look. “Why haven’t I ever met this cousin of yours before?”

Her friend’s face falls, and Feyre regrets her question immediately. She hadn’t been expecting such a gut reaction from Mor. Then again, Feyre only knows so much about Mor’s falling out with this “idiot cousin.” There’s no telling what exactly happened between them, what memories Feyre has triggered.

“That would be on account of the evil girlfriend,” Mor says in a clipped tone. “Rhys moved away to live with her a few years back and basically pretended we all died. I was mad about it, and at him, for a long time, but… He’s family.”

“Oh,” Feyre trails off in thought, thinking of her own complicated family. Morrigan smiles uneasily, likely understanding exactly where Feyre’s mind has gone. She’s never had the best relationship with her sisters, but, as Mor said, they’re family. 

“Yeah,” she agrees, returning to the present. “Yeah, I get that.”

Her best friend is quick to shake off the melancholy, flashing Feyre a dangerous smile. “Right! So, what do you say to a round of drinks? I think we’ve earned it after the turn in _that_ conversation.”

Feyre breaks in laughter, but her stomach roils at the thought of drinking tomato juice for breakfast. She frowns deeply, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Mor, who raises a perfectly manicured brow in question.

“I think I’ll pass,” Feyre tells her, sheepish. “I don’t think my stomach can take anymore. I’m so full.”

Mor holds her eye for a long moment. At last, she shrugs, waving over their waiter and beaming at the man; she practically knocks the young man off his feet with the force of her smile. Feyre stifles a smile.

“Guess I’m drinking for two of us then!” Mor announces, grinning at Feyre. “You’ll make sure I get home in one piece, won’t you, Feyre?”

“I will take it under consideration,” she jests, earning a peal of raucous laughter from her brunch date. Feyre is quick to join in. For once in her life, Feyre thinks things are finally going her way. Things are looking up.

*

Feyre doesn’t know what she was thinking, playing checkers with Azriel. The man is a statue; she can’t get a read on his thoughts no matter how hard she tries, and Feyre is trying really, really hard.

“I’m starting to think you interrogate traitors to the nation in your free time,” Feyre quips, moving her black piece across the board. She’s sure she’s got him this time. There’s no way he can possibly outmaneuver her—

Azriel’s lips twitch into the ghost of a smile. He moves the red checker, wiping the board clean of half of her tokens. Feyre’s mind races, trying to decipher how he tricked her into that move.

“What the fuck,” she mutters, harshly under her breath. Azriel’s honeyed eyes fill with mirth; Feyre can tell he’s trying hard not to break face and laugh at her expense. “How the fuck?”

“You’re getting better,” he reassures her. Feyre sends him a seething glare, and at last, Azriel chuckles, amused by her frustration. “I swear, I’m not being condescending; that’s Cassian’s job.”

“What’s my job?” The man in question asks, flopping onto the couch. A slice of pizza dangles from the side of his mouth as Cassian looks them over, reading Feyre’s frustration. He grins. “Getting your ass kicked, huh?”

“This sucks. I’m terrible,” Feyre complains. “I don’t know why you asked me to play this with you again.”

“That’s because you’re the only one willing to get your ass kicked by him anymore,” Mor says, appearing out of nowhere and leaning over Feyre’s shoulder to examine the board. “Honestly, we gave up trying to beat him years ago.”

Azriel frowns at Mor. “No cheating.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Morrigan chirps, disarming the stoic man with a smile. She reaches over Feyre’s shoulder, moving a piece for the lost woman; she manages to claim a checker for Feyre, who cheers at the small victory.

Cassian laughs loudly. “C’mon, Azzie. Let Feyre call in a lifeline.”

“Fine,” Azriel grumbles. He takes one look at the board, eyeing Mor’s move, and then he shifts one of his game pieces. In the blink of an eye, all of Feyre’s checkers are gone from the board.

“ _Son of bitch_ ,” she hisses. The room laughs.

Mor rests a hand on Feyre’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. Her best friend’s voice is filled with fondness as she tells her, “Don’t worry, Fey. The only person who can win against Azriel will be back soon, and then it’s every man for himself.”

“I don’t want every man for himself,” Feyre whines, holding her hands up in the air. “I’ll get annihilated; I want every man _against_ Azriel.”

Their audience breaks into cackles, Cassian slapping his lap and Mor clutching her stomach; Feyre tries not to look too pleased about it. Her opponent, on the other hand, turns his aghast expression on her.

Azriel’s mouth twists at the corner. His smooth voice is fond as he says, “I can’t wait for you to meet Rhys, Feyre. You’re both equally ruthless.”

*

Feyre launches herself from her bed, rushing blindly through the second floor of the townhome and towards the bathroom. Her socks slide precariously across the hardwood floors, and Feyre nearly lands on her knees right there in the hall.

In the nick of time, she reaches the toilet; Feyre crashes to the ground, emptying the contents of her stomach into the bowl. Feyre’s stomach roars with unhappiness, twisting and turning viciously. Her body retches horribly, and last night’s dinner returns to her.

“Ugh,” she moans, wrinkling her nose and flushing the toilet. Feyre feels so nauseous that she might just fall over, collapse right there on the floor. Without warning, her stomach spasms again.

“Cauldron!” Mor’s voice calls from up the stairs. Feyre must have woken her up in her mad dash to the bathroom. “Feyre? Are you okay?”

She moans in response, remaining face down towards the toilet. Her dinner stares back up at her, and Feyre groans, hitting the lever to flush the toilet once more.

“Mother, are you sick?” Mor cries at the sight of Feyre on the floor. Concern shines in her best friend’s chocolate brown eyes, and she grimaces before throwing up in response to the question. Morrigan swears.

“I think I’m dying,” she tells Mor.

“Shit,” her friend hisses. “I told you eating at that bar was a mistake.”

“Cassian eats there all the time,” Feyre protests. “He’s never gotten food poisoning.”

Mor makes an unconvinced sound. “Cassian’s stomach is made of steel.” She pauses thinking. “Cauldron, I hope I don’t get sick.”

“You’re not helping,” Feyre complains as her stomach turns again. She moans in pain.

An apology shines in the other woman’s eyes. “Can I get you something? Some tea?”

She shakes her head; the idea of consuming anything only makes Feyre feel sicker. The motion only upsets her body further, and Feyre soon finds herself staring at the toilet bowl once more. Mor hovers close by, trying to make a decision.

“No!” Feyre yelps, stopping Mor from holding her hair. She frowns at the hurt in her friend’s eyes. “Just—what if it's not food poisoning, you know? I don’t want to get you sick, too.”

“Fey…” Mor trails off, but at the look she receives, she relents, sighing. “Okay. Shout if you need me, but please don’t die. It’ll bring down the property value.”

Feyre chokes on her responding laughter, groaning again. It takes a while for her stomach to settle down enough to allow her to climb back into bed and fall into a troubled sleep. 

Feyre is vaguely aware when Mor comes in to check on her before leaving for the day. Her friend doesn’t disturb her, though, and when Feyre awakes up to the empty house, there’s water and crackers waiting on the nightstand of the guest room for her. 

A little note reads: _Had to go into the office for a few. I’ll be back to check on you soon. M._

Hot, stinging tears prick at Feyre’s eyes; she loves Mor.

*

They’re at the boys’ apartment in the middle of a riveting game of charades when her nausea strikes again.

They’re in the middle of a round, and Feyre was just about to decode Mor’s terrible acting when it hits her, sudden and fierce. She runs for the bathroom and skids to a stop in front of the bathroom sink, vomiting. There was no way that Feyre was going to make it to the toilet this time.

The house is silent, and then, “Feyre, are you alright?”

It’s Azriel. His honey-colored eyes shine with concern. Feyre tries to flash him a reassuring smile, but it fails. Her body trembles with the need to expel all of the popcorn she consumed this evening, and she tries to fight it off. Yet, she fails, puking back into the sink. She flushes from head to toe, and Azriel fights not to grimace.

“I’ll go get you some water,” he says softly, disappearing from the bathroom to give her some privacy.

He must relay the news to the other two members of their party, though, and Mor and Cassian appear at the bathroom door moments later. Feyre groans, wishing they’d all just leave her to die in peace. She doesn’t really want an audience right now.

“Again?” Mor cries. She looks apprehensive now. “You said you were feeling better!”

Feyre shoots her a look. “Clearly it didn’t stick. I guess whatever I ate is still bothering me.”

“A whole day later?” Mor asks, skeptical. Her brows pinch together.

“Maybe it turns out I have the stomach flu,” Feyre’s grin is evil. “You’re welcome.”

Mor gives her a disbelieving look, but before she can say anything Cassian interrupts. He wears a shit-eating grin. “What—you pregnant or something?”

Feyre’s skin goes cold and then hot, her flush hidden behind her already red cheeks. Mor cackles at the joke, smacking their friend on the arm, and Cassian beams with pride, expression pleased to have gotten at least one laugh.

“Cass, you have to get _laid_ to get pregnant,” Mor tells him, motioning towards Feyre. She tries not to be offended. “This is _Feyre_ we’re talking about.”

His grin doesn’t fade. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Mor, but Feyre is _hot_. She can get laid whenever she wants.”

“The last person Feyre was with would have been Tamlin,” the blonde tells Cassian impatiently, wrinkling her nose. Betrayal settles at the bottom of Feyre’s stomach. “We wouldn’t wish that on anyone, much less Feyre.”

Cassian’s mouth drops open. “Shit,” he hisses.

His wide eyes are worried. Horrified, even. Feyre tries not to take offense, but the reaction still stings. Despite the tumultuous end to their relationship, Feyre still loved Tamlin. It doesn’t sit well with her to hear his name dragged through the mud, even if she wished otherwise.

“I’m n-not pregnant,” Feyre insists as her stomach tosses and turns again. “I’m on the p-pill. Now let me d-die in peace. _Please_.”

Azriel reappears just then. He shoos Cassian and Mor away with a simple look, and then he offers Feyre the water. She thanks him, apologizing profusely, but the quiet man shrugs off her concerns, quietly excusing himself with the promise to return to check on her soon.

Feyre hides in the bathroom for a little longer before returning to the gathering and excusing herself to go home. She just barely manages to shake Morrigan off her trail, telling her friend that she’ll be okay and that she doesn’t want to ruin Mor’s evening.

But, the truth is that Feyre needs to make a stop on the way home, and if Mor were to see what it was that Feyre was picking up, there’d be a lot of questions that Feyre wasn’t yet ready to answer. No, for now, Feyre would be keeping her secret to herself for now, and praying that everything turned out okay, she’d never tell anyone. Feyre could take it to her grave if she wanted to.

*

Feyre tries to pretend that her face isn’t burning with shame as she approaches the counter, but there’s no mistaking the heat in her cheeks or the shake in her voice as she sets the bundle of pregnancy tests down.

It was way more complicated than Feyre. She didn’t know which one to get, didn’t know the pros and cons, or what she was looking for; so, Feyre just picked up one of everything. It couldn’t hurt to cross-check, right?

“You know, one usually does the trick,” the man deadpans from the counter, judgment tainting his eyes. Feyre tries to glare at him, but her blush only deepens. “Unless there’s more than one of you knocked up, you don’t need them all.”

There’s no missing the implications of his hateful words, and Feyre flushes out of anger now rather than shame. She opens her mouth to say something smart and to put this judgmental asshole in his place, but to both of their surprise, only vomit comes out, spewing onto the counter.

Horror overcomes the clerk’s face, but Feyre feels no pity. She slams the wad of cash in her pocket onto the counter and leaves without another word.

*

The wait for the tests is the longest five minutes of her life. Feyre paces the small square footage of the bathroom, burning a hole into the tile and pulling at her hair until it’s in tangles. Her heart’s never beat this quickly in her life, and if she breathes any faster, Feyre is sure she’ll pass out.

Wouldn’t that be a way for Mor to find her? Passed out and surrounded by all of this.

The timer on her phone goes off, and Feyre dives for the nearest stick, checking the results. Panic takes her, and she reaches for the next one, only to feel her stomach fill with dread. She swears, reaching for another, but Feyre already knows what it’s going to say. She already knows the results.

This is what Feyre gets for not thinking before she acts, for listening to her hormones instead of common fucking sense; she only brought this upon herself. 

The laugh that comes out of her is strangled with emotion, hysterical and foreign to her ears. Two blue lines shine back at her in mockery.

Feyre was on own for this. Cauldron, she was such an idiot. There was no way in hell that she’d ever live down the shame, and Feyre can’t help but consider her sisters, their reactions when they find out the news. 

Cauldron, what was she going to do?

“Pregnant,” she whispers to herself, panicking. “Shit, I’m _pregnant_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn’t exactly where I wanted to end this chapter. I was hoping to get just a little bit further, but this is where my brain decided to end it.

Feyre was _pregnant_.

Her heart pounds with the discovery, the realization, and the panic that her life is about to change drastically. Gods, how could Feyre have missed all the signs? Was it because she was afraid? Because she was in denial? Both?

“Feyre?” Mor calls from downstairs. The distinct sound of a door closing shut tight against the cold follows. Feyre flinches as if she were just caught doing something bad; her toes nearly leave the floor in her surprise.

Morrigan’s heels click up the stairs. Her friend calls out for her a second time, “Feyre, are you feeling any better?”

The woman in question releases a soft swear. Feyre thought she’d have at least a little bit more time before her roommate returned home, but Mor must have been too worried about Feyre to enjoy the game night any longer.

Guilt festers in Feyre’s lungs as she makes quick work of shoving the tests back into the bag and hiding it underneath the bathroom sink. Mor never comes into this bathroom—except to check on a sick Feyre. She won’t find anything.

She’s not sure why she goes through the trouble of hiding the evidence; it’s not as if she’ll be able to keep this groundbreaking discovery to herself for long. Feyre can’t hide the matter until it decides to go away. Besides, Feyre is an adult, a grown woman. Getting pregnant is not something that she should feel ashamed of, right?

Feyre never bought into the stigmas of sex, not with Nesta Archeron as her old sister. The woman was a fierce advocate of women’s rights. Yet, Feyre’s stomach turned at just the thought that her older sister might judge her for her carelessness. Nesta would _never_ mistakenly get pregnant.

Maybe that’s why she feels the need to hide away all of the tests, and Feyre’s taken quite a few of them, all in hopes that at least _one_ will have a different answer for her. Although, something tells the woman that even one negative test can’t undo the implications of the positive ones.

She tells herself that it’s only because she’s just not ready to share, that she needs a little bit of time to process it all, and then she’ll tell Morrigan—tell the boys. Feyre flushes from head to toe at the memory of Cassian’s shit-eating grin as he asked if she was pregnant. The bastard.

With that thought, all of the teasing she endured earlier this evening rushes back to her, including Mor’s stubborn assurance to Cassian that there was no way Feyre was sleeping around. Cassian’s horrified face flashes behind Feyre’s eyes; he’d been distraught at the idea that it might be Tamlin’s.

No, Feyre was not ready to endure telling anyone yet. She barely wanted to tell herself.

“Feyre?” Mor’s worried voice passes through the door, causing Feyre to jump out of her skin a second time. She clutches at her heart, urging it to restart and begging her stomach to settle. The shock has brought the ill-feeling back, and Feyre really would like not to puke again.

_Cauldron, she was pregnant._

The thought kept returning to her, sudden and unbidden. She wishes it would just go away, that the truth would leave her alone, stop clanging around in her already pounding head. Feyre needed to think, and she needed to sleep. She was on the verge of having a meltdown.

“I’m okay,” Feyre croaks, aiming to reassure her friend. She grimaces as she dashes every hope of doing so, her quavering voice failing her. The world spins, and she thinks she’s going to be sick again.

Pregnant. _Pregnant._ She was pregnant.

“Promise,” Feyre swears, managing to make her voice sound steady.

There’s a long pause before Mor speaks; Feyre suspects the blonde on the other side of the door is weighing the pros and cons of just bursting through. It wouldn’t be the first time Morrigan did such a brash thing.

“Uh, okay,” her roommate says, sounding utterly unconvinced. “Do you want me to go get something for you? I can run down to the store—”

“No,” Feyre yelps, thinking of her interaction with the clerk at the corner store nearest them. She should have ventured somewhere else for her purchases. She lets out an audible sigh; it’s not as if there is anything there that Mor could buy to aid Feyre.

Increasingly, Feyre feels more pathetic and guilty about lying. “I think I’m just going to go to bed, but thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay…” Mor says, sounding anything but convinced. “Love you, Fey.”

Feyre sends the bathroom door a watery smile. It’s definitely for the best that her friend not see her expression; Mor would see right through the act. “Love you, too, Mor.”

*

The creak of the stairs tells Feyre when Mor finally relents, retreating upstairs to her suite on the third floor. Her roommate doesn’t bother her anymore, but Feyre’s phone chimes once from its place in her purse. It’s a message from Mor:

**Let me know if you need anything. I’ll check on you in the morning.**

Only the Cauldron knows whatever Feyre did to deserve such a friend. Without Mor, Feyre knows that she would still be cowering in her bedroom, hiding from her boyfriend, and desperate to find a way out of the life she’d let someone else build for her—for them. For him.

Feyre’s stomach twists once more, but this time the woman suspects that her train of thought is more to blame for the feeling rather than something else.

Morning sickness, Feyre startles at the thought. She’s been suffering from morning sickness all of this time—because of the baby.

Feyre takes a long hard look at her reflection, her phone hovering in her hands. The redness in her eyes has left them a stark blue, and her skin has never looked more sallow, she thinks, with dark bags hiding under her eyes. Feyre sure doesn’t think she looks like some glowing pregnant woman.

She thinks she looks like shit.

**Thank you, Mor. I’m sure I’ll be fine in the morning.**

Logistically, she knows that she’ll have to tell Mor soon, but Feyre has no idea how she’ll manage such a feat. Mother knows that Cassian and Azriel will only go protective-brother mode on her, and were the baby to end up being Tamlin’s…

“No, there’s no way,” Feyre hisses to herself. The idea of having such an irrevocable connection to Tamlin for the rest of her life was unbearable. If the time living with him was any indication, it would be nothing but miserable and suffocation—and now it wouldn’t be just her who suffers.

Feyre braves the hallway at last, now that the coast is clear. She muses over the implications; she knows immediately that it doesn’t matter who’s baby it is. Tamlin will have no part in her life again.

She throws away the evidence into the kitchen trash before taking the garbage out to the curb. Feyre has to admit that she feels at least a little bad about going to such great lengths to hide everything from her best friend. Even if Feyre only plans to do so for a little while, to give her time to process it, she’s still sneaking around behind Morrigan’s back.

And she’s kind of freaking out. Because what if the baby is Tamlin’s? What if—

Her mind shuts down the thought before Feyre can begin to panic. No, no, no. There’s no way. The baby can’t be Tamlin’s, and not just because it _can’t be_. Feyre does the math in her head. The last time Feyre was with Tamlin, however underwhelming it may have been, was too long ago. It just doesn’t add up.

“Shit,” Feyre swears to herself, coming to a conclusion. She takes the frustration out on the garbage in her hands, chucking it into the dumpster with unnecessary force. “ _Fucking_ hell.”

*

The spare bedroom door is open.

Feyre notices it on her way back towards her bedroom, intent on getting some sleep and dealing with her problems in the morning. When she sees it, Feyre eyes the entry to the third, unoccupied bedroom curiously. She wonders what it’s open for.

She knows that she should just mind her own business. It’s hypocritical of her to go snooping around Mor’s house, but it’s just too tempting to not take a peek inside. Feyre rarely goes into this room. Come to think of it, she doesn’t think anyone really ever uses this room. It’s so odd to see the door open, implying someone’s been inside.

Feyre peeks through the opening, noting the freshly made bed and boxes tucked into the corner of the room. Someone, likely Mor, has been busy at work in this room, but for what, Feyre has no idea. Nosily, she enters the space and spots the closet left open. There are more boxes inside.

Feyre thinks so hard that her forehead wrinkles. Why would Mor be prepping this room? Or better yet, who for?

Cassian and Azriel rarely ever use it, complaining about the sole bed and instead choosing to sleep on the couches downstairs. It’s one of their smarter decisions, really. The only reason for either of the men to stay the night is because they’re too drunk to manage the trip home, and Feyre and Mor aren’t nearly strong enough to lug their uncoordinated frames up the steep, unforgiving stairs of the townhouse.

Fingers hovering over one of the boxes, Feyre resists the urge to open the box at the last second. It’s probably a step too far for her snooping. Mor’s already done Feyre the favor of taking her in when she needed it most; she doesn’t want to push Mor’s boundaries, too.

She sighs, deciding to ask More about it in the morning. With one last look around, Feyre changes focus and leaves the room without disturbing anything, clicking the door shut behind her. It feels weird to leave it open. She’s exhausted after the events of today. This is a mystery for later.

*

“So,” Mor begins a few days later. “Remember how I mentioned that my cousin was moving back to Velaris?”

Feyre watches her roommate slices into her stack of pancakes with vigor, shoveling the sugary goodness into her mouth. The sight of the syrup turns Feyre’s stomach, and she struggles not to look away.

“Yeah,” Feyre says, sipping her tea. She eyes her eggs and toast distrustfully.

Feyre can’t decide if her stomach is queasy because she’s that hungry or if she’s going to puke—again. She glances away from the food before it can beat her, and Mor eyes her quietly. They both know that the blonde has spent the last few days keeping an eye on her; Mor’s made no comment, though, merely watched as Feyre’s persistent _illness_ refused to abate.

“How’s the apartment hunting going?” Feyre asks, drawing the attention away from her and back to the topic at hand.

Something flickers behind Mor’s eyes, but Feyre isn’t able to place the emotion before her friend speaks, “Terribly. You know what the housing market is like around this place.” An irritated sigh, but not at Feyre and her homelessness, just a general sort of annoyance. Mor blinks it away and smiles coyly. “Which leads me to my next point.”

Feyre can’t stop the snort from escaping her. She grins at her roommate. “Smooth, Mor. No wonder you’re so good with all the ladies.”

Morrigan rolls her eyes, but she smiles arrogantly, just the same. “Whatever, Feyre.” She takes a beat. For drama or to prepare herself, Feyre isn’t sure. “So, I may have offered my cousin—you know, the one you’ve never met before—our spare bedroom.”

“Oh,” Feyre says. “That explains all the boxes.”

“You aren’t mad?” Her big brown eyes already beg for forgiveness. Mor holds out her hands in supplication. “It’s totally okay if you are. I mean, after all the shive you’ve been through lately.”

Mor sighs deeply, crossing her arms and coming to some inner conclusion without even waiting for Feyre’s answer. “You’re so right. I should never have done that. I’ll call him immediately and tell him to crash with the guys—”

“You don’t have to do that, Mor,” Feyre interrupts, a fondness overcoming her for Mor. Her friend is always looking out for her. Guilt nags at Feyre with the reminder of the secret she’s keeping.

Mor’s forehead wrinkles without confusion. “I don’t?”

“You have a spare bed for a reason, right?” Feyre shrugs off the nerves that come with the idea of living with another person. A stranger. And a guy. It’ll definitely be weird, but Feyre isn’t going to let that stop Mor from taking care of her family.

“Besides,” Feyre continues before Mor can protest. “If he stayed with the guys, he’d just end up crashing on their couch. And I know from experience how uncomfortable _that_ sleeping arrangement is.”

A smile twitches on Mor’s red-painted lips. “Or we’d find them all sharing one bed again.” Feyre arches an eyebrow in surprise, and Mor laughs. “It wouldn’t be the first time that I found those three curled up in bed together.”

The thought makes Feyre smile. “You all must have been very close.”

That familiar dark look passes over Mor’s face. As always, her best friend fights off the expression, forcing a smile on her face. “Definitely. The guys were inseparable until he met _her_.”

Feyre regrets bringing the sore topic up. She looks away from Mor, stabbing her eggs with her fork and nibbling at the bite of food. She waits for her stomach to react one way or the other to the food. So far, Feyre thinks pregnancy really sucks.

Predictably her stomach lurches at the smell of the eggs so close to her nose. No, it’s the nerves this time, she tells herself because Feyre still can’t believe it—she’s pregnant.

“Anyway, Rhys will be back soon,” Mor says offhandedly. “Then, we can all move past these horrible last few years.”

“Huh?” Feyre asks, feeling a little green.

Mor ignores her, noticing the queasy look that must be on Feyre’s face. She eyes her with that knowing gaze before asking, “Are you sure you’re doing better, Feyre? You’re looking a little… pasty.”

“Wow, that’s so kind of you.” She deadpans.

Mor giggles, but the concern refuses to fade from her friend’s face. Feyre can’t blame her. It’s been around a week since their last game night, and while Feyre thinks that the morning sickness hasn’t improved, it also hasn’t gotten worse.

Feyre thought that she’d managed to hide the problem so far, but now it would appear that she hadn’t.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” Her best friend reminds her gently. “You’ve had one hell of a time lately. I’m all ears if you need to talk to me about whatever it is… that’s bothering you.”

And just like that, Feyre caves. Mor’s gentleness is too much to resist; Feyre doesn’t know how she ever worried about telling her.

“Uh, yeah.” Feyre laughs awkwardly, and the sound is a little shaky with her feelings. Mor sits up a little straighter; even Feyre heard the hysterical note in that laugh. “There is, kind of, something.”

“Yeah?” Mor’s eyes look hopeful, and Feyre’s heart clenches in her chest. She really does love Mor; she’s her best, most-trusted friend. “Great! I mean—” Morrigan’s brilliant smile goes sheepish. “Okay. I’m listening.”

Feyre chokes on another laugh, failing miserably at trying to shove the emotions clogging her throat aside. “Um. Yeah. So, I’m kind of… pregnant?”

“What?” Mor shouts gracelessly. Her golden skin flushes with embarrassment at the outburst, and she clears her throat to try again. For some reason, it makes Feyre smile. It’s such a Mor response.

“I’m sorry. Did I just hear you, right? Did you just say—” Mor leans forward to whisper the word. “—you were _pregnant_?”

“Yeah,” Feyre replies, clearing her throat and blushing madly. “It turns out that Cassian is not as funny as he thinks he is.”

“Cassian’s never as funny as he thinks he is,” Morrigan says flatly as if it’s nothing more than a fact of life. Still, her eyes are kind as she looks Feyre over, likely viewing all of her friend’s symptoms in a new light. Feyre’s face burns under the attention.

“So,” Mor starts quietly. “How are we reacting to this? Are we excited? Totally freaking out? Pretending nothing is happening?”

A smile stretches across Feyre’s face. Mor is such a good friend; she doesn’t know what she would do without her. “I was pretending it way until about five minutes ago,” she admits without guilt. “But the smell of your pancakes kind of makes me want to die. So, I’ve moved on to totally freaking out.”

“Got it.” Mor snatches her plate off the table, dumping it onto a table further away from Feyre. “So. Then. I have to ask.”

Feyre swallows her nerves as Mor meets her eyes. “Is it Tamlin’s?”

There’s no hiding her flinch at the idea. It still causes Feyre to panic, the idea of having a child with him, even if she knows it can’t possibly be his. Mor misreads the expression, and panic strains her own face, as well. She whips out her cellphone, dialing a number with urgency.

“Don’t worry about it, Feyre,” Mor says seriously. “There’s no way he’s getting near either of you. I’m calling Amren now.”

“Wait!” Feyre yelps, reaching for Mor’s phone to hang it up. “You don’t need to—I mean, he’s not—It isn’t his.”

“Oh,” Mor says, dropping the phone to the table. Her brown eyes are wide with surprise. “Then whose is it?”

Feyre’s blush returns. She looks away, avoiding her friend’s face. “So, maybe there are two things I need to tell you.”

*

“Shut _up!_ ” Mor exclaims, her voice echoing over the river. They’ve claimed a bench downtown on the waterfront. Feyre is admiring the bright blue waters of the Sidra in place of looking at Mor’s face.

The blonde laughs, throwing her hands in the air and then wrapping one arm around Feyre’s shoulders. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore!”

“Mor,” Feyre groans. She hides her face in her hands, and Mor giggles again. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Me? Dramatic? _How dare you,_ ” Mor hisses, laughter still shaking her shoulders. Feyre’s friend squeezes her arm more tightly around her. “Feyre! You slept with some _guy_ you met at an _airport._ And you didn’t even get his number! Who are you? Where’d my shy Feyre go?”

“I freaked out, okay?” Feyre defends herself, feeling silly. “I’ve never done _anything_ like this before—Issac doesn’t count. So, I snuck out of the hotel and caught my flight home.”

“You had a one night stand,” Mor whispers to herself as if she still can’t believe it. “And you got _pregnant_. Damn. Now that’s some straight people shit. Don’t you idiots know about condoms?”

Feyre pinches Mor’s side hard enough to make her yelp. “You’re not funny. I’ve told this to you in confidence, and all you’ve done since is make fun of me.” She sniffs loudly. It’s meant to be a joking gesture, but as tears sting her eyes, Feyre gets angry, wiping away the tears. “Fuck, I’m so hormonal.”

Mor gapes at Feyre, her eyes seconds from popping out of her face in shock. She tugs the crying woman close, resting her head atop Feyre’s. “Sorry, Fey. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t.” She sniffs again and sighs heavily. “I’m just pregnant.”

*


End file.
